


Stranger Than You Dreamt It

by minttwilight



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Slow Build, i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minttwilight/pseuds/minttwilight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine no longer needed her Angel of Music to teach her to sing, but Erik refused to keep away. So he taught her, still, about everything but music.</p><p>{on hiatus}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first full fledged fanfic, and I hope you enjoy!

The room was stuffy, the musty winter air trapped in the rather cramped room where Christine slept. She couldn’t sleep, and she could’ve sworn the little giggles coming from some girls across the room were about her. 

She didn’t know why, but she was the one they laughed at. 

Meg Giry was different though, was sympathetic. She was kind to Christine, and Christine cherished the friendship between them. They had a bond like sisters, and were basically attached to the hip. 

Christine tossed and turned in her bed, ignoring the giggles she kept hearing. She couldn’t sleep but, frankly, she didn’t want to. She was waiting for her teacher. Her Angel of Music. 

He sang her to sleep the first few months after she joined the Conservatoire. His gentle voice would drown out the voices of the other girls, who always stayed up late. His voice would lull her to sleep. 

Eventually he would teach her to sing. She’s go to Madame Giry’s office late at night, after he beckoned her there around midnight or so. Always for two hours. She had started to improve, and six months after he started teaching her, she ended up having one of the best voices out of her classmates. After another year, she had the best voice her Angel had heard. Her Angel of Music was proud, of her and of himself. 

He still kept teaching her though. And so, here laid Christine, nearing sixteen years old, tossing and turning in the uncomfortable bed, waiting for his voice. After what felt like an eternity, that husky voice of his found its way into her head.

“ _Christine, my Angel, come to me_ ,” he whispered. Christine smiled, and picked up the candle on the nightstand between her bed and Meg’s. She quietly tip-toed out of her room, opening the door just enough so it wouldn’t creak. Her feet pattered to Madame’s office, and she gently shut the door closed after she entered. She braced her back against the door, a soft smile creeping across her face as she gently sighed. 

This was her haven. Her spot where she could sing as she wished with no judgement except the gentle criticisms of her teacher. 

She gracefully lifted her back from the door, taking a deep breath. She set the candle on the desk, and she closed her eyes as she heard the door lock behind her. 

“I thought you weren’t going to call for me tonight,” she whispered, looking up to the ceiling. She heard a deep chuckle. 

“I would never miss the chance to hear you sing.”

“I know, monsieur, but… especially with the rehearsals for _Hannibal_ coming up, I was worried you would stop the lessons until after the premiere,” Christine murmured, her voice quivering. It was cold, and her nightgown was rather flimsy. Her maestro either ignored the shiver in her voice or didn’t notice. She hoped for the latter.

“Ah, but the rehearsals don’t start for another few days. Tonight is the last lesson I will give you,” he said, noticing the smile fall from Christine’s lips. Her soft, pink lips. He shook his head in the dark, she was his student, for Christ’s sake, and she was probably almost 20 years his junior. It was wrong in every way.

“Forever?” she asked, an arm folding across her chest, her opposite elbow resting on her arm. She bit her fingernails.

“Yes, my Angel.”

“But why, monsieur?” Her voice was tentative, worried his temper would burst. It didn’t happen often with her, but when it did, he was terrifying.

“You have no need for a tutor. Quite honestly, you don’t even need this lesson. I don’t think I’ll use this… meeting as a lesson.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed. “I will watch you in your performances, but I will not be teaching you. You will know when I am near,” he said softly, dodging her question. Even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

“Alright, monsieur.” She knew that telling him he didn’t actually answer her would only upset him. So she accepted his statement, knowing he was right. She always felt his presence. “Monsieur, I know this will be the last lesson—”

“It’s not a lesson.”

“Alright. Meeting, then. Since this is the last meeting, I’d like to… request something.” 

He sighed. “What would you like?”

Christine took her hand from her mouth, and instead starting massaging the backs of her hands. “I wish to know what you look like.”

“But am I not an angel?” His voice nearly caught in his throat. He always knew she would ask eventually, but he wanted to wait. He wanted to be prepared.

“You are, monsieur, but even angels have bodies they show to mortals. I may not be worthy like Mary had been but, monsieur, I wish to know,” she whispered, the desperation in her voice as she looked at the ceiling sounding more like a prayer than anything else. Her teacher bit his lip and shook his head, looking at the floor beneath his feet.

“You will, Christine. Not today, but someday.”

“ _Bien sûr_ , monsieur,” she said, a sadness in her voice. She was disappointed, but at least he wouldn’t keep himself hidden away forever.

“Go, you must sleep.” He wanted her to stay, so desperately. Christine nodded.

“Yes, monsieur.” And she left.

She went back to her bed, and kept tossing and turning during the night. His soothing voice never sang to him. She never slept that night.


	2. II

Christine was exhausted, so damn exhausted. She didn’t know the time, but it had to be early, as none of the other girls were up yet. Another restless, sleepless night had presented itself to her. This was the last rehearsal before the premiere of Hannibal. She had to be the best she could. She couldn’t fall asleep while practicing. That had happened twice, and Madame Giry was less than ecstatic.

She willed herself to take her rosary from her nightstand and prayed. The Apostle’s Creed left her lips, a soft whisper in the dark room. When she reached the First Mystery, she couldn’t meditate. She couldn’t focus. That was the point, though, so why couldn’t she?

Stress perhaps, or her Angel’s refusal to even speak a word to her in the night as her mind refused to sleep. She ran her fingers over the beads of the rosary, and squeezed the crucifix in her hand. The cold metal seemed like ice against her hot skin. A tear escaped, running down her cheek. 

No, she couldn’t cry now, not when Madame Giry would be here any second to open the door and rap her cane against the wooden floor. She quickly wiped her cheek, saying a quick prayer in her head for forgiveness. She wasn’t sure if failing to pray the Rosary was something to confess, so she made a note in her head to ask Madame Giry about it. 

The door opened, and in stepped Madame Giry, her hair braided into a crown and pulled into a neat bun as always. Christine envied the long black gown Madame always wore, she wished the thick wool was wrapped around her body. But the flimsy cotton nightgown would have to do, as it always did.

“ _Réveillez-vous_! It’s time to get ready for our last rehearsal,” Giry said, her voice demanding and tense. The last rehearsal was always the most stressful. The girls got up quickly as the ballet mistress rapped her cane on the floor. 

“ _Oui_ , Madame!” The girls’ voices sang in unison, their bodies quickly retreating to the dressing room they shared. 

Christine trailed behind them, her exhaustion making her move slowly. Madame Giry ignored this, though noted the sluggish shuffle of the Swede’s feet mentally. 

—————

Monsieur Lefèvre walked onto the stage with two men, Firmin and André, as the ballerinas took to the stage to dance before the aria. Madame Giry walked the the three men, naming off ballerinas as the new managers asked. Christine could vaguely hear Madame Giry tell the new managers that she was promising. She didn’t believe the praise. She danced as though she hadn’t heard it.

After the practice, La Carlotta sang her aria, but barely made it through the second bar before a scene backdrop fell on her. Christine was nervous as Madame, André, Firmin and Lefèvre discussed what was to be done, and especially as she heard Madame mention he Vicomte de Chagny. 

“There is no understudy, monsieur, the production is new!” Reyer exclaimed, taking a handkerchief to his forehead.

“Christine Daeé could sing it, sir!” Christine wanted to kick Meg for saying that, but instead glanced at the floor.

“The ballet girl?” Firmin asked doubtfully.

“ _Oui_. She’s been taking lessons from a great teacher,” Madame Giry answered.

“Who?” Andrè asked, and Christine stifled a giggle. His tone made him sound like an owl.

“I don’t know his name, monsieur,” Christine said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Fine, fine, let the girl sing,” Firmin said, gesturing Reyer.

“From the beginning of the aria, mademoiselle?” Reyer asked, and Christine nodded. She heard Andrè say something to Firmin, and Firmin said something back, but she focused on the music.

She knew she sang it well. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, mesmerized looks on each face. Madame and Meg smiled, knowing she would be playing Elissa.

—————

She sang the final note, smiling widely as she received a standing ovation. Soon after the performance, Meg noticed Christine’s absence, and called for her as she went down the stairs into the chapel.

“Christine, you were amazing! Perfect, even! Who is your teacher?” 

Christine shrugged, and told Meg about her Angel of Music her father sent her. They walked towards Christine’s dressing room, talking about this Angel. Christine stopped suddenly as they were walking. Meg took Christine’s hands in her own.

“Your hands are cold,” Meg noted, and pressed a hand to Christine’s cheek.

“He’s all around—” Christine’s voice was hushed, as if she didn’t want anyone to hear her.

“Your face, Christine, _c’est blanche_ ,” Meg noted, a tinge of fear in her voice.

“I’m frightened, Meg,” Christine admitted, her voice trembling. She took Meg’s hands again. Meg released one and pulled Christine towards her dressing room.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, Christine, don’t be frightened…”

—————

Christine arrived at her dressing room and bid Meg goodnight. She was helped out of her dress and left alone. Christine put on her dressing gown, enjoying the feel of the soft lace against her bare skin. She started brushing her hair and realized she never asked Giry about whether or not being unable to meditate on the Mysteries while praying the Rosary was a sin she'd need to confess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! I'm sorry this is moving slow as of now, but I promise it will start to speed up a bit!


	3. III

“Little Lotte wondered, ‘ _Am I more fond of goblins or of shoes?_ ’” Christine turned to see a smiling Raoul. 

“You remember that? All these years later?” She asked, returning the smile. He nodded, and knelt down by her feet.

“But of course. The picnics in the attic. The time I saved your scarf from that river. I was soaked to the bone,” Raoul replied, grasping her hand in both of his. Christine put her brush down and giggled. “You sang beautifully, Christine.”

“Thank you, Raoul. Or should I call you _Monsieur le Vicomte_?”

Raoul sighed. “Please don’t call me that, we have no need for formalities. We were childhood sweethearts.”

Christine’s smile faltered slightly. “We haven’t seen each other in years, though, Raoul.”

“I know,: he said, standing up and reaching a hand out. "Let us go out to dinner."

Christine shook her head. “I can’t, the Angel of Music is very strict.”

Raoul huffed. “The one that sang songs in your head as you laid in bed as a child?”

“My father had told me that when he died, an Angel of Music would visit me, teach me, watch over me. The Angel used to visit me every night.”

“If he no longer visits, then you could surely spare an hour or two for a dinner. I will be back in a few minutes,” Raoul said, a smile curling his lips.

“Raoul, wait—”

Before Christine could finish, he’d left, nearly slamming the door behind himself in excitement. Christine wasn’t even dressed. She looked down at her corset and tiny bloomers. Her chemise was rather revealing as well, and she had no time to change and no one to help. 

Christine stood, walking to her door. She heard her candles being blown out all at once and turned. She was alone. Who was doing this?

“Insolent boy, this… slave of fashion! He’s basking in your glory!” A booming voice filled her dressing room, and her breathing became heavier and shallower. “Ignorant _fool_ , this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph…”

“Angel? Oh, _c’est toi_! I hear you speak, I listen. Stay by my side and guide me, please!”

“Look at yourself in the mirror. Christine, come to your angel,” he beckoned, and she did. She slowly walked to the mirror, noticing his body slowly being revealed the closer she came. 

She took his hand, shivering at the cold leather against her skin. She stepped through the mirror, not realizing the glass had been slid out of the way.

—————

She sang the highest note she possibly could, feeling her vocal chords start to strain as he bellowed for her to sing for him. She looked at his standing figure as he rowed them across the misty lake, staring straight ahead. 

She’d forgotten completely about Raoul. 

Christine looked around in wonder, taking note of the muted bronze that covered near the entirety of the lair. She watched her Angel intently as he stepped off the boat and walked onto the solid ground of his lair. 

He sang to her, his voice entrancing her. She vaguely heard him as she watched him move around with grace, reaching a hand out for her to step off the boat. She couldn’t take his eyes off him, and frankly she didn’t want to. He let go of her hand as he stepped behind the organ, and came back around, stepping towards her slowly. The pads of his fingers brushed her cheeks and he turned her around gently. e pulled her flush against his body, one hand staying just under her breast, the other moving down her torso to her hip to bring her hand to his face.

“Touch me,” he said, Christine’s head resting on his shoulder. He felt her fingers curl on his cheek, reaching for his hair. “Trust me…”

She turned around and fought the urge to kiss him from their proximity. He was so close to her. She knew she shouldn’t have been thinking these things, but she couldn’t help it, as much as she wished she could.

He took a few steps backwards and pulled her towards a red curtain. He pulled the curtain back and her jaw went slack. A mannequin that looked just like her, wearing a wedding gown and veil.

The world went black as she fainted. He caught her before she hit the ground, and carried her bridal-style to the swan bed in the back of his lair.

—————

Christine awoke, and noticed a soft velvet under her hand. She opened her eyes. This was not her room. She stood up from the bed slowly.

“I remember there was mist… Swirling upon a lake,” she said softly, looking around as she stepped out of the room encased by a gossamer curtain. “There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat. There was a man in the boat…”

Her teacher looked up at her from where he sat at the organ, composing music. “You are awake,” he said, turning back to his music. Christine nodded.

“I am,” she said. She could feel her leg slip through the slit of the gown she wore under the corset, the fabric dragging behind her as she walked to him. She could hear him chuckle.

“As you can tell, I am no angel,” he stated, his voice low. Christine played with her hands and glanced at the ground. She didn’t know what to say. A heavy silence fell between them.

“Monsieur, may I ask something?”

“You just did,” he replied, “but yes, you may.”

“Why do you wear the mask?” Christine asked, hoping her question wouldn’t invoke his anger.

“I was born with a defect.” His statement answered her perfectly, but she was still curious.

“M-may I see?”

He looked at her with a grim smile. A low rumble emerged from his throat, and she realized it was a dark laugh. “This defect is the reason I live under the opera house and you wish to see it?”

“I’m sorry, monsieur,” she said softly, fighting the urge to take that last step between them to take it off herself.

“You may see one day, but not today. Not anytime soon,” he said. Christine nodded. He stood and took her hand in his. “Come, those managers of yours will be missing you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to have he 4th chap up by either tonight or tomorrow, depends on how busy I am.


	4. IV

Christine sat in her dressing room, still wrapping her mind around the night’s events. She just wanted alone time after her teacher had brought her back to her dressing room. Madame Giry had brought her back to her home, made the young Swede rest. She would need it before the production of em>Il Muto.

Christine had finally seen her teacher, yet still did not know his name or what he looked like without the mask. She hoped to find out as soon as possible. Would praying help? Would he still be able to hear her? Or is he really just a man?

He’d always heard her while she stayed at the Conservatoire but he also lived under the opera house it was in. She didn’t know the extent of his abilities but desperately wished to.

“Christine, are you awake?” 

Christine jumped sharply from her seat in the parlor. Meg slowly walked in, her hair pulled into a ponytail and in a nightgown. Christine cracked a small smile. “Well, I am now,” she said. Meg giggled.

“Has _maman_ come home yet?”

“No, she hasn’t, Meg. She isn’t with you?” Meg shook her head.

“No, she’s trying to convince Firmin and Andrè to give you the role of Countess in _Il Muto_ ,” the blonde said, sitting down beside Christine. “They gave Carlotta your dressing room.”

Christine’s mouth gaped, and an eyebrow raised. “Hopefully the glass won’t shatter when she sings in there,” she said, giggling. Meg laughed with her.

“Christine, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Meg,” Christine answered, resting her chin on her hand.

“Did you see him?” Meg’s lips curled into a small smile. Christine only looked confused.

“I’m sorry, see who?”

“The Phantom of the Opera, silly!”

“I-I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I mean, he was the one who left the note saying you were to play Countess, not the page boy.”

“Meg, I told you, I don’t know.” Meg’s smile dropped a little. 

“Oh, alright then. Go sleep, _maman_ will be probably be here in an hour or so.” Christine stood and wobbled as her feet touched the rug. “Goodness, Christine, did he get you drunk?”

Christine laughed. “No, but he _was_ rather gorgeous.”

“So you did see him! What did he look like? Was he old? He probably is,” Meg rambled, helping Christine to their shared room. “You need to tell me absolutely everything!”

“And I will, don’t worry,” Christine said, a smile forming.

—————

Christine hated practicing _Il Muto_. She hated having stay silent for the entire opera. The only good part aboutit was that Meg played the maid. Christine always fantasized about being the Countess. Not because the Countess was a cheating, gold-digging wife, but because of the extravagant costume. Because it was one of the leading roles. 

Firmin and Andrè refused to let Christine play the Countess though, they felt they needed to appease Carlotta. _Carlotta, the soprano who had the voice of a dying cat_ , Christine thought. It wasn’t kind of her to think such things, but no one liked Carlotta.

Nothing good would come from Christine having the lead, and she knew that. Meg had told her of the note the Phantom had left. The swede had put two and two together and realized her teacher, her Angel of a man was the Phantom of the opera. He had a violent temper and would punish those who did not do his bidding. 

Christine knew this, but felt a longing in her heart, in her soul, when she thought of him. She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. She was terrified of him, but there wasn’t something else she felt she couldn’t name, that she didn’t want to name. To name such a feeling would not end well. She could just feel it.

—————

Tonight Il Muto was playing. Carlotta as the Countess, Christine as the page boy. Box five was occupied. The managers had done _everything_ the Phantom told them not to do, had gone against all of his wishes, and they would pay for it. 

As Carlotta began to sing with Christine walking around behind her, a booming voice filled the opera.

“Did I not instruct that box five was to be kept _empty_?”

Gasps erupted, and everyone looked around to find where the voice had come from.

“He’s here, the Phantom of the opera,” Meg said softly, looking at the ramps around the ceiling. Christine nodded quickly.

“He’s here,” she said in agreement. Carlotta scowled.

“Your part is silent, little dog,” she said, pointing her fan at Christine. She smiled at the audience, pretending she hadn’t just called the young girl a dog, hoping no one else heard her.

She went to the side of the stage for some throat spray. When she came back,the orchestra started playing again. As Carlotta hit a high note, her voice strained, and sounded like a toad croaking. 

The managers rushed to the stage as the curtain closed, announcing that Christine would take the role of Countess, and that the ballet from the opera would be performed as the Swede was getting ready.

Just as the ballet started, though, Buquet’s body dangled from the catwalks, a noose caught around his throat.

Christine only had her corset and the first two skirts on, but she threw her cloak on and grabbed the red rose with the black ribbon on her vanity. Raoul stood outside her dressing room and she dragged him to the roof. 

“Why have you brought me here?” he asked as they ascended the first set of spiral stairs.

“We can’t go back there,” Christine answered, her voice shaky with fear as she quickly walked along the narrow hallways

“We must return!”

“He’ll kill you, his eyes will find us there—”

“Christine don’t say that—”

“Those eyes that burn! If he has to kill a thousand men… The Phantom of the opera will kill—”

“The Phantom is a fable, Christine!” Christine stopped walking as Raoul said that, turning slowly to face him.

“And he will kill again,” she said softly, her voice taking a dark tone. His eyebrows pulled together, but he walked past here and opened the door to the roof, and she followed. 

He sighed as he stepped into the lightly falling snow. “There is no Phantom of the opera!”

“I’ve seen him.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Christine laughed softly, ignoring his statement. “His voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound. In the night, there was music in my mind, and through that music, my soul began to soar. I heard as I’d never heard before.” She walked towards a sculpture of a horse, feeling drawn to it. She could feel the Phantom’s presence, she knew he was standing behind it, but she refused to give away his hiding spot.

Raoul shook his head and walked up behind her. “What you heard was a dream, nothing more Christine.”

She heard a soft voice repeat her name as she had in the chapel after the premiere of Hannibal. She looked around, trying to see where it came from.

Raoul came from behind her and hugged her, and pulled her towards the door, and she dropped her rose. 

“No more talk of darkness, forget these wide eyed fears. I’m here, nothing can harm you—”

“Raoul, stop,” she interrupted, pulling her hand from his. She turned and picked her rose up. She stood back up slowly, keeping her gaze at the rose as she walked towards the edge of the roof, past the sculptures. She could hear him walking to her. 

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t…” Christine trailed off, not know what to say.

“You don’t what?” he inquired, putting a hand on Christine’s shoulder and turning her around. He stepped closer to her. “Christine, I love you.”

Christine looked away from him, bringing her gaze to the statue of the horse. Raoul took her chin in his hand gently, turning her face back to him. “Raoul—”

She was cut off by his lips against hers. She put her hand on his chest and pushed him away. “Raoul, stop, please. He will see.”

Raoul stepped away. “Christine, he isn’t real! All these things you think happened the other night, they were dreams! The events that have happened were pranks! Sick jokes!”

Christine turned her gaze back to that horse, and Raoul followed her gaze. He huffed and started walking away. She heard the door open and close quickly. She turned back around towards the ledge, staring at the skyline of Paris. 

“They weren’t dreams, Christine,” a soft voice said, and she turned around. “I am real.”

She saw the masked man, the mortal Angel standing less than a foot away from her. “It was Raoul that said you aren’t real. I know they weren’t dreams.”

His hand reached out to touch her hair, and grabbed a loose curl, winding it around his gloved finger. “But you must go back, Christine.”

“Monsieur, I don’t want to.”

“It was not a request,” he said, taking another step towards her. Her breathing became heavier. He inched his face closer to hers. “You must go back.”

Before she could say anything, do anything, he left. He walked off, cape billowing behind him.

“Monsieur! Wait!” she called, hoping he’d stop. And he did, turning around to see her running towards him. She showed him the rose she still held. “Were you the one sending me these?”

He chuckled, and she reveled in the sound. “I never stopped,” he said, producing a white rose with the black ribbon tied around it

She quickly kissed him on his left cheek, slowly taking the white rose from his hand. And she left. The Phantom was left to stand in the snow, his cheek burning where Christine had kissed it. He fell to his knees, quiet sobs falling from his lips.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little short! Enjoy!

Christine woke up to the sound of an organ playing softly. She knew something was off, and realized she was once again not in the room she shared with Meg. She was in the lair of the phantom for the first time in three weeks. 

She stood up, adjusting her nightgown. She pulled the rope by the swan bed, the curtain of gossamer lifting. She walked quickly, ducking under it. She saw the phantom sitting on the bench at his organ, gently swaying his upper body to the slow tempo of the music. He stopped for a second, and she thought he knew she’d woken up, but he simply laned forward to write notes on the sheets of paper standing on the organ. 

“Monsieur, why have you brought me here?” Christine asked, taking a few more steps towards him. He looked at her, then turned his body to completely face her. Her heart started to race and her breathing became heavy. Her bare feet stood rooted to her place, a few feet from where he sat. He stared at her intensely, studying her figure and body language. 

“I wished to,” he replied simply, adjusting in his seat as if uncomfortable. She cocked an eyebrow, bringing her hands to rest on her waist.

“Why, if I may ask?”

He shifted uncomfortably again, loosening the cravat around his neck a little. Christine took a few steps towards him. “It does not matter, my Angel,” he said, his eyes boring into hers.

“What if the managers or Madame Giry believe I’ve gone missing?”

“They will not.”

“You bring me here from my home in the middle of the night while I’m asleep, and you think I will not be missed?” Her voice came out in a hushed tone, as she tried to keep from raising her voice. But fear spread through her—what if she was not missed? 

“I left a note saying you would be staying here for the next few weeks.” He sense her fear and stood slowly, taking a step towards her. “You will be missed, but they shouldn’t fear you’ve gone.”

“They will still fear for me,” she said, a tear in her eye. What would they do to him if they came down here? Do they know this is where he resides?

“Why would they fear for you?”

“They are scared of you. You willingly harm and kill and extort money from the managers. Why wouldn’t they fear you? Why wouldn’t they fear for me? You are capable of many evil things, monsieur.”

“Isn’t every man? You yourself are capable of such evils, mademoiselle,” he spat, offended by her words. “Do you really think I wish to harm you? After protecting you all these years?”

“I never said I was, monsieur, I said _they_ were,” she said softly, realizing the small space between them. “I am sorry to have offended you. I did not mean to.” 

She turned around and went to go sit down back at the bed but his hand grabbed her shoulder just as she did so. She sighed and turned back around. He pressed his forehead to hers, his hands moving to cup her cheeks, his thumbs brushing along her cheekbone. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” He hadn’t done anything but be rightfully upset. He pulled away, moving his hands down to her neck. His eyes searched hers.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. Christine shook her head, gently pulling his hands away. 

“Tell me why I am here. Why did you bring me here?” She was becoming desperate for an answer.

“I already told you—”

“No, you did not tell—”

“I told you it does not matter. Now drop it,” he commanded, taking on the threatening tone he did whenever she defied him. She raised her chin pointedly.

“Fine. Then I wish to know something else.” He sighed.

“What is it you wish to know?”

“Your name. Not your titles. Your actual name.” She saw his jaw clench, his eyebrows scrunch together.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“' _It does not matter_ ',” she mocked, feeling dangerously liberated at her defiance. She was nearly high off the feeling, she loved it and craved _more_.

“Fine. My name is Erik.” His eyes wandered from hers, his gaze resting upon anything that wasn’t her.

“Surname?” She put a hand to his cheek to force him to look at her. He easily grabbed her hand, though, and pulled it away. He entwined her fingers with his. 

“I do not have one, that I know of,” he said softly, still refusing to look at her.

“Look at me, Erik,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. He did so reluctantly. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and pulled him into a hug. She had caught him by surprise, his arms stretched out to the side, as he didn’t know how to react. She pulled back a bit though, and pulled his arms to wrap around her waist. She looked up at him, her arms around his neck, her chest against his. She smiled. “Do you not know what a hug is?”

His eyebrows raised. She stared at his lips, tearing her gaze away from them after a moment. She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but quickly hugged him again just in case. He reveled in this hug, pressing her tight against him, one of his hands coming to rest on the small of her back, the other on her neck, her thick hair separating their skin. He so desperately wished to tangle his hand in her hair, pull it back and expose her neck to him so he could kiss along the length of it.

But instead, he stood there as they embraced. Inhaled her scent of vanilla and honey and lavender. It felt like an eternity had passed before she gently pulled away to lay back down and rest, but he knew it could have only been minutes.

He knew she was very good at acting, but she hadn’t been acting when she gazed at his lips. Or maybe she was, he didn’t know. He knew she had to be, no one would want such a man as ugly and horrible as he. Especially since she knew what horrible things he could do, even if she said she wasn’t afraid of him.

Everyone was, and he realized he had to be much more careful around Christine. He had to distance himself. He watched her as she slowly retreated back to the swan bed. She laid indulgently on the velvet coverlet, making sure he was watching before pulling the rope for the gossamer curtain to fall.

_Merde_ , he thought. 


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little bit of minor angst, if you can even call it that

Christine was bored. He didn’t want to teach her anymore, and there was nothing for her to do. She didn’t even have her rosary. Maybe he had some books she could read, or perhaps she could try to leave on her own. She realized he wouldn’t let her, though, and if she attempted he would find out and become very upset. She didn’t want that. So she walked behind his organ, pulling back the heavy curtain to reveal a small parlor, with doors leading to other rooms. She walked towards the chaise near the fireplace, and saw him laying on it, peacefully sleeping. She knelt down beside him, taking his hand and whispering a soft prayer.

She wanted to wake him, but he looked like the angel he pretended to be as he slept, so she left him alone and explored the other rooms. The door closest to the fireplace revealed a kitchen, a small but cozy one. A door on the other side of the room led to a bathroom, a porcelain tub—big enough for her to lay in, if she had her back against one end and had her knees bent—sat along a wall. A small tray sat on the large counter next to the bowl and pitcher. 

Christine poured some of the water from the pitcher onto her hand over the bowl. She brought her hand to her face, hoping the cold water would bring her to her senses, and that she’d wake up in her room. 

But she didn’t. Instead she slowly slid to the ground, quiet sobs escaping her throat. Just earlier today she had told him that she wasn’t scared of him. He would know if she was acting though. So she wiped the tears with the back of her hand and stood up, pulling the thin dressing gown around her body, and tied the silk ribbon around her waist. She hadn’t realized she only had her corset and chemise on under until now. 

As she looked up from the ribbon, her hands moving to wrap around herself, she gasped, taking a step back. His figure towered over her, intimidating.

“Why were you crying?” His voice held no sympathy. It was as if he didn’t care. Christine had been quiet, hadn’t she?

“I was not, monsieur,” she replied, slowly shrinking into herself. She hadn’t been scared of him before, but she felt vaguely frightened now. He huffed.

“Do not call me 'monsieur'.”

“Fine, _Erik_ , I won’t call you 'monsieur'.” She looked away from him, but he gently grasped her chin with his gloved hand, turning her face back to his. His eyes searched hers, as he moved his hand to her cheek. 

“Why were you crying?” 

“Erik, not right now, please—”

“I swear to God, Christine. Please tell me why you were crying,” he pleaded, both of his hands cradling her cheeks now. She shook her head, another tear escaping her eye.

“I’m scared, Erik,” she admitted, seeing his expression soften. 

“Why?”

“I-I don’t know, Erik, but I am.”

He sighed. “You have no reason to be scared, Christine.”

“I know that.”

—————

Christine was laying on the swan bed as Erik sat at her feet, telling her about Italy. She had never been, but the way he described the country filled her with wanderlust and made her feel as if she’d been there a million times. She swallowed his words, enjoying every second of his fleeting smiles and reminiscing. 

“Christine?” 

She snapped out of her daze, and saw him smirking. She realized she’d been staring at him. She apologized and he chuckled darkly.

“It’s as if you’re imagining what hideousness sits underneath the mask,” he said, his hand hovering over the hard white leather. She shook her head.

“I was not, but may I?”

“What? See my hideous face?” 

She scrunched her face in confusion, her eyebrows drawing together. “Is that so bad? Is it evil to wish to see the full face of the man who taught me to sing?”

He sighed. “With a face like mine, yes.”

She sat up, moving to sit in front of him. She was now just a few inches away, and she could smell the scent of musk and exotic spices that wafted from his clothing. He only wore a billowy white shirt, his muscular chest exposed through the loosely tied twine on the front of his shirt, and black trousers. He had ditched his formal shoes, instead wearing just his black socks as he sat on the bed. 

“Let me see you, Erik,” she begged, her hands on his cheeks, her thumb brushing his bottom edge of his mask. He softened under her touch. She slipped her thumb under, pulling the mask away. He cringed as the cold air of the lair caressed the scarred skin.

His skin was pinched and red in places, stretched and white in others. Her hand ran over the marred skin of his face, staring at it with shock on her face. She closed her open mouth, and pressed a chaste kiss to his right cheek. He looked up sharply, tears in his eyes. 

His upper eyelid was drooping over his eye, red and puffy, as if one large blister. It extended to his black hair, the deformity suddenly stopping as if blocked by a wall. She realized it must’ve been a wig, the, but dared not pull it off. His lips and the skin just by his jaw were unaffected by the deformity, but the right side of his nose was caved in. 

“Christine, please, say something,” he pleaded, his eyes boring into hers. Her breath was ragged.

“You are not a monster,” she whispered, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. He stiffened, but returned the hug. He quietly sobbed into her hair, mentally praising every deity that could possibly exist for gifting him with Christine.

They sat there, melted into each other’s embraces, Christine’s forehead tucked into the crook of his neck, one arm wrapping around his waist with her hand sitting between his shoulder blades, and the other resting on his shoulder, her hand resting in his hair. 

“Thank you,” he whispered into her hair after calming down. He pulled away slowly, only enough to look at her face. She had a small smile playing across her lips.

“Of course, Erik.”

She quickly closed the gap between them, pressing her lips against his. He stiffened again, feeling her hands move to his cheeks. She pulled away, a dreamy look in her eyes. Quickly that look turned to one of panic as she jumped from the bed, forgetting she was still wearing only her chemise and corset, without her dressing gown this time. She walked to the parlor quickly, escaping to the bathroom. She closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it and sliding to the ground.

What had she done?


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was fun to write.

The next few days had passed slowly, it was almost as if time had stopped entirely. Thankfully, Erik had brought her rosary and a Bible for her, so she had something to read in the lair. 

The two had barely spoken since Christine had kissed them, and the silence was torture for both of them. She wanted to speak to him again, but she didn’t know what to say. She could ask him about the music he’d been composing as of late. Or she could try to apologize.

She walked from her spot on the chaise in the parlor to the organ where he sat, his fingers gracefully moving across the keys. He felt her sit beside him on the bench, stopping his fingers. He kept his gaze on the keys as his hands gripped his knees.

“I’m busy,” he said, “must you bother me right now?”

Christine moved her hand to his cheek, turning his face to the right to look at her. She moved it away after a second, and he turned his gaze to the keys again. “Erik, I’m sorry for bothering you, but we can’t keep this up.” 

“Can’t keep what up?”

“The silence! You won’t say anything to me, Erik. I hate it.”

“To be fair, you won’t speak to me either.” He grimaced. Christine sighed.

“And I’m sorry about that,” she whispered softly. He looked back at her, his visible eyebrow furrowed. “I really am. I didn’t know what to say after the other night and I’d try to speak with you, but then I couldn’t.”

“Do you regret it?” His voice was soft. Christine’s face became contorted with confusion.

“Regret what?” He glared at her. Christine nodded, knowing he meant the kiss.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I?”

He nodded. She stood up and went back to the parlor to read.

—————

Christine was tired. Even after their little talk earlier, he wasn’t saying much to her. She wished he would, desperately. But it was getting late and she needed to sleep. She went to say goodnight to Erik, and saw him composing still at the organ. She stood behind him, gently placing her hands on his shoulders. 

“Erik?”

He slowly came to a halt and turned his head to look at her. “Yes, Christine?”

“I’m going to bed, goodnight,” she said with a soft smile, a glint of mischievousness in her eyes. He noticed and searched her face, wondering about her intentions as she stayed put, her hands still on his shoulders. She slipped her hands down his arm just a little, and bent down to press a small kiss to his shoulder. She nestled her forehead in the crook of his neck, her hands slipping further down his arms, and to his hands. She laid her palms on the back of his hands, entwining her fingers between his. She slipped away from him gracefully.

She hadn’t taken more than five steps before he stood up and grabbed her hand, quickly turning her to face him.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said darkly, his voice rough and deep. She shivered. 

“I was just saying goodnight.” She was confused. What did he mean? He huffed and let go of her hand. 

“Go to sleep. You must be tired.” Christine nodded. She went to the swan bed and pulled the rope to allow the gossamer curtain to fall. He watched her from the place where he still stood as she slipped off her dressing gown and untied her corset, wearing just her bloomers and chemise. She slipped under the coverlet and turned her back to him as she laid down.

He went back to composing music, finally having the inspiration to finish the opera he was working on. He knew these next few weeks would be long, torturous and trying. He just hoped he would survive. 

—————

Christine awoke to the smell of… something. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but it smelt rather good. She got up and pulled the rope of the curtain. She followed the scent, the stone feeling icy against her bare feet. She came into the parlor and realized Erik must have been cooking. What time was it?

She opened the door to the kitchen slowly, revealing Erik standing over the rather small stove, and she smiled. He looked up at her, sucking in a sharp breath when he noticed she hadn’t put on her corset or dressing gown. He quickly glanced at her face before diverting his wide eyes to the eggs he was cooking. She cocked an eyebrow, not understand why he barely looked at her.

She took a seat at the table, and leaned against the chair. “Good morning, Erik.”

He mumbled a reply. She shook her head, chuckling. He turned around and nodded quickly. “Right, good morning, Christine.”

“Are you alright?” Her tone told him she was smiling as she spoke.

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re barely looking at me,” she remarked, wondering what was wrong. “Have I done something?”

“Would you rather I stared at you? Especially since you so adamantly refuse to wear actual clothes?”

Christine’s happy expression turned to confusion. “Erik.”

“What,” he replied, bringing a plate of toast and scrambled eggs to her. He looked exasperated.

“You never told me where you put my clothes. Either way, you’re always at your organ composing and I’m usually reading the Bible in the parlor, I saw nothing wrong. I’m sorry.”

He sighed, turning around and going back to the stove to make food for himself. “They’re in the white trunk against the wall to the left of the bed.”

“Thank you.” She took a bite of her food, moaning as she chewed. She had never had food this good. His eyes snapped to her. Her eyes were lightly closed, her head lolling back slightly. He turned away, back to the stove.

If only he could have her do the exact same thing, in his bed, and by his hands instead of his food.

He cursed himself mentally for thinking such disgusting things. She was, what, sixteen? And he was, what, mid-30s? He couldn’t remember, he didn’t bother worrying about what day it was or the time. Unless it was one of Christine’s performances, or breakfast while she was down here in his lair.

He knew the next two weeks would be hell. He didn’t realize they would be this bad, though.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, this chapter is very short. I'm going through a family crisis at the moment and I don't have the time, or privacy, to write as much as I used to. Hopefully this will change soon, but for now chapters will be posted rather sporadically and with not much content.

It was her second week staying in Erik’s lair. At some point he had brought her supplies to embroider. She had never been good at it, but now she had time to hone her skills—or lack thereof. 

She had started wearing clothes, instead of just her undergarments. For that, Erik was immensely grateful. Most nights, though, he couldn’t help but watch her when she undressed. She still slept in a chemise and bloomers, but sometimes she would wear a nightgown. Those were the nights Erik lived for.

Erik, decided, though, that he needed space away from her. He sighed softly as he watched her continue her ritual of undressing and laying across his swan bed. She had caught him staring at her this time, and she cocked an eyebrow, confusion spreading across her features. He stood slowly from his place on the bench at his organ, turning to go into the parlor.

—————

Christine woke up, and immediately noticed how warm the room was. She bolted upright, a tear straying from her eye when she realized where she was. Had it all been a dream? 

She realized it must have been, her trunk of clothes was in the same spot it had been when she was last here. In her dressing room. She let out quiet sobs, her chest quickly rising and falling, sharp movements that were nearly painful. After a few minutes though, she looked at the time on the clock in the room, and got dressed. 

The only way to know whether it had all been real or not was to ask Madame Giry. 

Christine nearly ran around the opera house, looking for Giry, before realizing the managers may have had the letter. 

“Christine? What are you doing?” 

Christine turned at the familiar voice, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she looked at Raoul’s smirking face. She looked down, curtsied, and looked back up at him as he walked towards her with slow, confident steps. 

“I’m going to the manager’s office, monsieur,” she replied softly, feeling nervous. She turned her gaze away from him, settling her eyes on the golden statues of women holding candles. He chuckled, gently using his hand under her chin to turn her face back to his. He leaned against the railing, quickly looking at the grand staircase he’d seen her running on.

“They are not yet here. But, I do have something to ask you.” His smile widened as he looked back at her, standing up straight and taking her right hand in his. “The masquerade next month, go with me, Christine. _S'il-tu plaît._ ”

Christine thought about it. If the past two weeks hadn’t been a dream, perhaps Erik didn’t want to see her anymore. So she smiled and nodded. “I will.”

“Oh, _merci, Christine! Merci beaucoup_!” He hugged her then, resting his chin on the top of her head. She reluctantly reciprocated the hug, lightly wrapping her hands around his muscular body.

She pulled away after a moment, curtsying. “I must go find Monsieurs Andrè and Firmin.” She turned away and started walking towards their office. She kept walking, never moving her eyes from looking forward as she heard Raoul quickly stride up ti walk alongside her.

“Let me accompany you,” he said softly, linking their arms together. Christine smiled. 

Perhaps their love was mutual, once more, as it had been all those years ago in Italy on the lake.


End file.
